Harwich in a hurry

The Dover entrance shows its nasty side once more 

Yacht experiencing the joys of the Dover entrance

The couple of days of dodgy weather left it at that and gave us two pleasant days in Dover. There were very many Dutch boats about the place, mostly pinned down longer than they wanted to be by the weather and bound for their holiday cruise to the south coast of England. Dover retains a surprising amount of its old charm, considering that quite a bit of it was destroyed by German guns fired from France (!) during the war.

Dover esplanade

Dover Castle - a snip at £17 per adult

Then, a beautiful forecast. A day for the seas to settle down after the hard blow and then a fair breeze for crossing the insidious Thames Estuary. Prime time for Dover departure, to catch the start of the north-going tide, was 1300. That would mean a night-time arrival at Harwich, but it being a busy commercial harbour, the entrance is well buoyed and lit.

The White Cliffs

The good gentleman of Port Control bade us hold station just inside the eastern entrance and then follow out the departing Calais ferry, Rodin, after which we pointed the bow more or less north and sailed up past the famous white cliffs, picturesque Deal and Ramsgate to North Foreland.

Our course was nearly a dead run (with the wind right behind), and called for regular alterations of 40 degrees or so to either side, meaning gybe after gybe, each time dropping the foresail and moving the pole from one side to the other. Plenty of work to break up what can otherwise be a tedious passage across the 40 mile-wide estuary.

The other points of interest are the wretched sand banks, invisible just below the surface, now mostly covered with wind farms, arranged in the ideal configuration to make navigating across distinctly awkward. Add in a goodly amount of shipping to dodge and a sudden gale warning and you have the makings of a memorable passage.

As we worked our way towards 'Fisherman's Gat', one of the gaps where one may cross the treacherous sand banks, the VHF crackled to life with an announcement from the Guard Ship Mary Anne, warning all shipping of the hazard to navigation presented by the wind farm currently under construction just to the east of us and blocking off 'Foulger's Gat', the pass east of Fisherman's Gat. Duly noted.

Shortly afterwards, I was occupied with an involved bit of sail handling up forward when Sonja called me aft with the news that the alarmed-sounding guard ship was now hailing us specifically. I called them up and reassured them that we had no intention of going through Foulger's Gat and we parted with mutual wishes for a pleasant evening. To be honest, we wouldn't have been tempted anyway, as Foulger's is shoal and unmarked, but they seemed to be happy to have someone to warn.

Wind farm in the Thames Estuary

The wind died as we emerged from Fisherman's Gat into Black Deep and we motored along to Sunk Head, turning across King's Channel towards NE Gunfleet (love the names). The breeze roused itself again at this point and we were soon sailing once more. At this point the VHF piped up with a 'Securite, Securite, Securite' - meaning a safety announcement to come. "Southwesterly gale expected in Thames and Dover, soon." Just a little added frisson to season the final 3 hours of the trip.

Darkness fell as we crossed King's Channel and the wind farms lit up like cities around us. With a rising wind behind us we raced across Goldmer Gat towards the Medusa Channel, a shortcut  to Harwich inside the Rough Shoals, but very shallow. We'd planned the route on a forecast showing light wind on the Harwich approach, so felt slightly concerned over what the sea state would be like in the Medusa when the depth dropped to under 5 metres. It turned out fine, giving us a thrilling ride as we searched ahead to pick up the lit buoys and come roaring into the Stour-Orwell Estuary.

Things became a little confused as we felt our way in to the Half Penny Pier in the dark at 0100 and we were less than pleased to find a quite heavy swell jostling the few boats already tied up there. We first made fast to an empty berth on the outside of the pontoon but soon realised it was far too rough stay there. I thought I saw another vacant berth inside, where the shelter was better, so we cast off again and made our way in.

A sign on the end of the pontoon highlights the presence of floating moorings in the basin and recommends sticking close to the pontoons. The street lighting lit the basin well enough that I could see the moorings clearly and saw no reason not to motor around behind the moored fishing boats to get into a good position for coming along side the pontoon. Once there, however, I glanced at the depth sounder, which was now reading 1.4m! 'Urk!' Since Fettler draws 1.4m that was cutting it rather fine.

Next, I saw the 'No Mooring' sign on what I had taken to be a free berth. We decided to raft up against the boat on the next, and best protected, spot along the pontoon. The boats were pitching and rolling a bit, but we fendered up well, issued a medicinal spirit ration, and turned in. 0200.

0400. Woke up to the awful din of fenders in distress between the two boats. The forecast gale was arriving and the boats were heaving and bouncing uncomfortably together. Our neighbour's head appeared in his hatch as I worked out what to do to get things under control. I saw that the angle between our pontoon and the next could be used to advantage by running long warps from across there to Fettler and winching them in tight to hold us clear of the inside boat. With some assistance from Sonja and neighbour Terry, things were soon set up and the boat lying much more comfortably. Of course, the final line adjustments, after Sonja and neighbour Terry were both away back to their beds, had to be made in the pouring rain.

Come 0900, it was all go again, with inside boat wishing to depart and various others too, who were heading out for the day's racing. The weather was worse. Howling and lumpy. We helped others and they helped us, boats were warped and tugged all over the place, departing one by one. We decided to shove off too, having heard from one of the locals of a good spot to anchor nearby with much better shelter. This also happened to be a great place to watch the many beautiful traditional boats racing on the River Orwell.

Racing in the River Orwell

So many beautiful traditional boats

Felixstowe Container Terminal in a squall

Thames Barge

After a good night's sleep we pushed off for the River Ore - the entrance of which had shifted dramatically since our last visit two years ago. But we had the up-to-date chartlet, courtesy of Doc, and the buoys were in position so the entry was no big deal. We rounded Havergate Island and there was Doc's boat Tuesday anchored in Abraham's Bosom - the first to welcome us back to the UK in person.

Sailing past the Orford Ness lighthouse, on the inside

Tuesday

Bird scarer?

We have now retreated far upriver for shelter from the stiff northeasterly blowing and no doubt generating a rather nasty sea state out there, which is bothering us not a bit. Up here it's peace, perfect peace, and we've had a nice visit from a curious otter already. It'll soon be time to head ashore for the first time since Dover.

Over to Dover

Bottled up in the harbour with this going on outside

The beach at Petit Port (at low water)

We've been weather-bound in a lot of places, one time or another, but perhaps seldom so gladly as in Guernsey. It's wonderful if there's no favourable wind blowing, making one feel guilty for passing it by, when you really just want to stay and enjoy the time with great friends in a rare location.

Megalithic man in the Dehus tumulus

St Peter Port, also known as The Town

Reuse and recycle in Guernsey

We savoured many things about Guensey. Its beauty and charm, of course, and also its Britishness. After two years away, what a treat to eat good fish and chips, and wash it down with a pint of proper British beer! To buy our old favourite treats in a familiar supermarket. To chat randomly with anyone at all and not have to think about the language.

Please do feed the cockerel 

Guernsey cow. They must use all their energy for making milk

Friendly islanders, a strong sense of community. 'Hedge-veg' - people with garden produce to spare put it out in front of their house with a price list and an honesty box for the passer by to make their purchase.

Plenty of ferry action in the Little Russel

Le Grand Havre

Old lifeboat

We were berthed right next to our friends, Keith and Colette, met a year before in Bayona, and shared with them many a convivial evening of music and wine, conversation and laughter.

Vale Church 

Cobo Bay

At length, after a stay of 10 days, the wind changed direction, as we knew it eventually must. It blew hard from the northeast for that whole time, which is exceedingly unusual for the time of year, but at last it swung to the southeast. We gave the seas a day to settle down, leaving Beaucette on Monday morning and nipping across to the anchorage at Herm to wait for the optimal time to leave for catching the tide through the Alderney Race. Well, that was the plan.

Over at Herm, outside the southwest-facing harbour, where the wind had blown for 10 straight days from the northeast, we found a crazy swell working its way in from the south, making a stay of even a few hours there distinctly unpalatable. Plan B then, on to Sark, where we fetched up  in the dramatically beautiful Havre Gosselin and grabbed one of the thoughtfully provided free visitors' moorings, where we had lunch and slept a few hours before getting under way for Alderney.

Spectacular anchorage at Havre Gosselin, Sark

The Alderney Race is one of those iconic tidal gate passages, much discussed and even feared by mariners for millennia. It's a product of the outlandish tides that occur in the Bay of St Malo. Jersey and Guernsey, separated by only 20 nautical miles, have a surprising difference in tide heights. If high water at Jersey is 10 metres, it'll be only 8 metres at Guernsey, at the same moment. That makes for quite a slope on the water and generates very strong currents, especially at bottlenecks between bits of land. It also means, unusually, that slack water occurs at half tide, rather than at high and low water.

The Race, therefore, is to be treated with respect and never more so than on a big spring tide, which, of course, is when we hit it. The wind died as we entered the passage, so we motored though as the light faded and the current gathered strength. It was rather eerie. Silent, with strange patterns on the water. For a long time Alderney was ahead, gradually becoming more distinct and then suddenly it was vanishing astern as the current swept us past and on up into the Channel. I really wouldn't want to see it on a bad day, with wind against tide and a big swell running.

Go, go, go in the Alderney Race

The English Channel has the most intense concentration of shipping anywhere in the world, which adds spice to any crossing, especially coupled with its own strong tidal streams. The shipping lanes where we crossed, on a line roughly between Cap de la Hague (French coast, east horn of the Bay of St Malo) and St Catherine's Point (on the Isle of Wight), are more than 20 miles across. The breeze, which returned as we emerged from the Race, was fair and we squeaked through the line of big ships without incident, though in each lane the wind did go slack, just as we passed in front of a ship, forcing the swift addition of engine power to get clear in good time. It's tiring though, attending to all that, especially during a night crossing and we were very happy to reach the inshore traffic zone on the English side, where we could sail on unmolested, save for a bit of action around the Solent.

The Channel was grey and lumpy, as usual. It looked identical to the scene two years ago, which hastened us on our way from Salcombe to the Azores and warmth and sunshine. The sailing was good though. Very good, mostly. Good enough to pass up the temptation to call in at Eastbourne, as Beachy Head finally emerged from the gloom, giving us our first sight of the English coast, but instead to press on for Dover and really knock the Channel on the head.

Thankfully, the second night on passage started off more restful than the first. The 'southerly 4 or 5' wind of the shipping forecast strangely conked out as we crept towards Dungeness Point against the tide but returned once we were on the final stretch with 12 miles to go to Dover and the tide turning in our favour. The pilot book mentions lumpy seas outside the harbour entrance in southerly winds and warns against being swept past by the tide, though I reckon the warning ought to be more emphatic. One also has to radio Port Control for clearance to enter this busy commercial harbour, so with all that and the difficulty of gauging distances in the dark, I suddenly found myself being swept past the entrance on a surprisingly powerful current. When we were still 1/3 of a mile off, a point of equilibrium was reached, where I could either make progress back against the current or closer to the harbour wall, but not both. This with the engine at full throttle and the mainsail drawing in a good 20 knots of wind!

Dover shenanigans

Just as I was starting to suspect we weren't going to make it, Sonja took a look at the plotter and informed me that we'd been stationary for 10 minutes. There was another chance - the eastern entrance. I called up Port Control again and explained that we couldn't make the west entrance, so could we try the east? Affirmative. Round we turned and whipped along the mile to the next entrance, working in very close to the sea wall so there'd be no chance of missing it and having to continue to Ramsgate. Sonja radioed again for final clearance, the green light went on and we shot in. Relief. We made our way to the inner harbour with dawn beginning to brighten the sky behind. 200 nautical miles - a good run. We're getting close to home!

After some delicious snooze, we headed into town and found, to our immense satisfaction, a Wetherspoon's pub, where we celebrated our return with steak and kidney pies and a pint and a half of real ale, all for under a tenner. Looks like there might be a couple of days at least to dodgy weather now, so we'll sit tight in Dover and hope for a fair breeze to carry us to Harwich soon.

Glorious Guernsey

Leaving Port de Paluden (photo: Robin Culverhouse)

It was an excellent sail to Guernsey from Aber Wrac'h, beam reaching all the way. Departure time was a bit of a compromise. The east-going current went with the flood, but that started very early in the morning, and we didn't want to leave too early, with it only being a hundred mile run, so we cast off the mooring at 0900, getting clear of the estuary and turning east at 1000. 

We still had to drop the genoa when 20 miles short of Guernsey, at around 0030, to postpone our arrival until dawn. We anchored in a bay on the south coast, at Petit Port, just after sun-up, slept for a couple of hours and then had breakfast before beating up to the rather astonishing harbour of Beaucette. 

Petit Port, Guernsey: our first anchorage on arrival

Beaucette marina, blasted out of an old quarry

The forecast showed very light wind in the afternoon, so we thought we'd be motoring the last few miles just before high water - good for the harbour entrance and good for the current going north. Nuh-uh. The wind was funnelling down between the islands, giving a stiff 20kts to beat into and raising a vicious chop against the current (story of our lives, these days). 

I wouldn't have minded so much if not for the fact that I was worried about one of the shroud attachment points on deck, where an ominous bulge had appeared and which had started to let in water on this passage. Thrashing to windward through heavy seas was not what the doctor ordered at that point, but no harm done thankfully.

The harbour at Beaucette was once a granite quarry. The army blasted out the connection to the sea sometime in the 60s or 70s to make it into a rather fab harbour. The entrance is not unlike Dunbar, but even tighter. The sill dries to 2.37m and it's very narrow. Seemingly some of the large powerboats in here can only leave or enter the harbour at HW springs. Very good shelter once inside.

The exciting entrance at Beaucette. As small as it looks

Much to our delight, the folks that we met down in Bayona (Keith and Colette) are here and we've got a berth next to them. It was a happy reunion and our good fortune extended to being invited along to the first BBQ of the season up on the old quarry rim overlooking the sea and the islands of Alderney, Herm, Sark and even Jersey in the distance.

Oystercatcher on the rocks

The castle in St Peter Port, viewed from the yacht club terrace

View across to Herm

Bordeaux harbour

Where the constables are still concerned for your welfare

Nice pound notes they have in the Bailiwick of Guernsey

Peaceful back lanes

North coast of Guernsey, at L'Ancresse

It's been a good spot and good weather for working on the repair to the deck, which is now finished. It was a question of stripping everything back, removing the shroud, its u-bolt and the neighbouring stanchion base, adding some layers of fresh glass fibre to strengthen, fabricating a stainless steel backing plate to further strengthen and then gooping it all back together with polyurethane sealant (thanks for the sealant, Keith!).

The leaky area - now reinforced and at least as good as new

Freshly gooped

Guernsey is a real delight and all the more so for being a somewhat unexpected landfall. As usual, the wind looks set to continue unfavourable for the next week, so we'll just have to enjoy ourselves here and see some more of the Channel Islands.

Out of Biscay

Quay flowers, Chateaulin

Chateaulin lived up to our first impression of friendliness. Quite a few people paused to chat with us on their way along the waterside and the nice lady at the Town Hall waived the very modest berthing fee because the key we were given for the toilets didn't work, though the one for the showers was fine. We were very pleased to find a Lidl just up the hill where we could stock up some essentials and a crepe stall at the market where we could chomp our favourite galette complete (cheese, ham and egg).

A very interesting and friendly chap, Didier, who had spoken to us a couple of times in passing, invited us to his flat for a glass of vino and a chat. He's Breton, a cabinet maker and sailor, 54 years of age and a widower of 3 years. Children grown and moved away. It was his name day, St. Didier's, and he was delighted to welcome us into his home. When we mentioned that we found the townspeople friendly, he demurred slightly, and it's a point worth making that the French seem to be generally quite reserved. Super polite, normally forthcoming with a smile and a greeting and a few words in passing, but then very slow to move on to the next stage of developing a friendship. So it happens that a decent, charming and skilled person like Didier, living in this over-populated world of ours, can be lonely. We were more than happy to spend some time with him and help him celebrate his name day.

Chateaulin also provided free wifi, and intensive examination of the GRIB files seemed to show a window for progress to the north opening up in about 3 day's time, but first some nastiness had to blow through, as usual. We decided to take the afternoon ebb down the river and spend another couple of nights at the super sheltered anchorage there, placing ourselves in a good position to catch the tide right for our sail out of the Rade de Brest and make the connexion into the Chenal de Four. All very intricate and interconnected.

Cute Aulne-side cottage

The run down the river wasn't nearly as relaxed an affair as the upbound journey had been. A fairly stiff northerly breeze was blowing and funnelling right up the river valley, around bends and all. We had the current on our side, but the wind blowing against it raised quite an impressive chop on the longer straights, having us ducking the flying spray blown aft from the bow and feeling the cold. The issue was not in doubt, however, and we made it down to the anchorage in good time.

Full moon, big tides

The next evening we were mildly surprised to see another British boat coming up the river. They went on by, but soon came back, clearly searching for a spot to drop the hook. It was near high water and the tiny nook we were tucked into was looking deceptively large, enticing them in for a look. I hailed them and explained that there simply wasn't space for two boats to squeeze in at low water, pointing out a couple of good alternative spots within about 200 metres. They were determined though, and eventually insinuated themselves right over at the northern horn of the wee bay. Of course, they later had to re-anchor twice as the water disappeared, evenually ending up out near mid-stream, but no matter.

We invited them aboard for refreshments and had a good chat before they headed ashore to try the restaurant (the one building visible nearby). Possibly it wasn't open, because they were soon spotted returning to their vessel. Unfortunately they were soon joined by a French Customs launch and we knew the chances were pretty slim that we wouldn't be next. The Customs lads spent a long time aboard our neighbours' boat and we wondered how thorough a going over we were going to get. We'd heard one or two horror stories about French Customs and, with the boat pretty well stuffed full of gear, a deep search could be a messy business.

In due course, the Customs RIB came alongside. Their craft was almost bigger than Fettler and three of the four burly chaps on board stepped down onto our deck, after receiving permission to do so. They were affable and seemed pleasantly surprised to be addressed in French - a good start. Passports and boat documents out of the way, they asked us about our trip. Seemingly we were flagged up on their computer as we had been in the Azores recently - a classic drug-smuggling route into Europe.

I could see the eldest of the team signalling to the boss with a shake of the head: He'd clearly decided we were clean. Boss wanted to be a bit more thorough though, so Senior went down below and had a chat with Sonja (half heartedly looking under a sail bag or two when prompted by the boss), while Boss himself peered into the cockpit lockers. It was all over within a quarter of an hour, with obvious goodwill on both sides. Senior was heard to say to Boss (in French), "They are what the English call 'cute'."

Early departure, former neighbours visible at the anchorage

We got going at first light the next morning and had a tremendous sail out of the Rade. The plan was to anchor in the Anse de Berthaume, more or less opposite Camaret, but the going was so good and the timing so spot on to catch the flood through the Chenal de Four, that we decided to continue.

Deep in the Rade

All was well rounding the corner at St Mathieu and tacking our way up into the Chenal, right on low water. As the tide started to turn in our favour, however, the sea state underwent a remarkable transformation. Suddenly there were large whitecaps all around and the going was becoming distinctly rough. We could have bashed on, but it wouldn't have been much fun and we knew the forecast for the following day would bring much more pleasant conditions. Besides, the fishing harbour of Le Conquet was only a mile and a half away, so we ran off downwind to reach it.

This was only half an hour after low water, but already there were 3-4 knots of current running against us, making a long haul of that mile and a half to Conquet. Once inside, everything was suddenly calm, sunny and warm. We worked our way in amongst the crowd of big fishing boats, looking for an unoccupied mooring, finally settling on one right back in the inside corner by the bottom of the slip. A shouted query to a crab fisherman sorting his catch on shore (aided by his wee boy, identically kitted out in yellow oilskin trousers and blue jersey) confirmed that we could stay where we were without putting anybody out. No charge either.

Full spectrum of fishing boats at Le Conquet

In the almanac the shelter at Conquet is described as being 'good, except in strong westerlies'. I would add that any westerly swell will work its way into the harbour around high water. We were quite comfortable in there, except for a couple of hours either side of high water, when things got rather rolly. Fortunately the timing worked out so that it was calm during the night.

It was a civilised noon start to catch the tide up through the Chenal, this time motoring into a very light northerly breeze (forecast westerly), giving us a mostly smooth passage to Aber Benoit. Even under those benign conditions, the spring tidal current produced some impressive effects with rips, races and eddies here and there along the way.

Rather rocky around the Four

Glad the current was going our way

Aber Benoit was made to sound very attractive in 'Secret Anchorages of Brittany', described as being the smaller, unspoilt, often overlooked neighbour to Aber Wrac'h, so of course we couldn't resist. Clearly things have changed since that book was published in 2005. Probably a thousand moorings have been laid, eliminating any space for anchoring. Some hundreds of holiday homes have also popped up on the banks, mostly shuttered up at this time of year, giving the place a very suburban air. Reed's (2011) mentioned free visitor moorings, now nowhere to be found. We grabbed an empty mooring (amongst many), which we were subsequently ousted from. There was incessant small boat traffic zooming past and throwing heavy wash during daylight hours, but we had a peaceful night.

Not as nice as it looks in this photo: Aber Benoit

In the morning, a girlie appeared on a launch who, though friendly, told us that if we wanted to stay on the mooring it would be €12/night. No facilities. That was the final straw. With bad weather on the way, we really didn't want to be stuck in there for anything up to a week, so we politely thanked her and declined, heading instead for Aber Wrac'h.

Aber Wrac'h

It was a boisterous 6-mile passage, during which we considered and rejected the possibility of pushing on for Morlaix. Rising seas, 3 knots of current running against us and a wicked looking cloud bank approaching from the northwest combined to put us off the idea. We were very pleasantly surprised to find just how nice it is inside Aber Wrac'h. It turns out that Wrac'h is actually the quieter, more unspoilt Aber.  We bypassed the marina and the expensive, exposed visitor moorings at the port in favour of the very sheltered, peaceful, fore-and-aft trots at Paluden. The everlasting strong northerlies and huge swell continue outside, so we might be here some time.

On the trot at Paluden 

We're getting back into the big tides: 7m